The Million Dollar Shot
by milkforthesouffles
Summary: Sherlock is injured while on a case and won't allow anyone to touch him except for his pathologist (a Sherlolly Valentine's Day Ficathon fic for ceaselesslyinlove)


A/N: Happy Valentine's Day! This fic is for **ceaselessleyinlove** as part of the Sherlolly Valentine's Day Ficathon! I hope you like it!

-x-

The moment that Molly Hooper opened the door to the taxi, she could hear the very distinct voice of the world's one and only consulting detective. But, it was not his smooth as chocolate baritone voice pervading the atmosphere causing pedestrians and neighborhood strollers to frown and shake their heads. Instead, it was the cacophony of rather uncivilized wails that disturbed what could've been a nice quiet afternoon.

"MOLLLLYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

She pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled in frustration as Tom very nicely paid for the taxi fare. Her first day off after a stint of six days including a horrendous graveyard shift the night before was not starting well. What she had wanted to do was shower and sleep, but Tom had called and begged her to come out for lunch to talk about where they had gone wrong. Molly couldn't deny that she'd had second thoughts about breaking off her engagement, but they hadn't been quite strong enough to get her to act upon them and contact Tom yet.

"MOLLYMOLLYMOLLYMOLLYMOLLLLLLYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

The front door was already opened just as John said it would be in his numerous frantic texts and voicemail messages. She'd never received such a deluge of messages from John or anyone else for that matter. For that reason alone, she knew the situation was either dire, delicate or both. He hadn't gone into much detail, but had implored for her to come to Baker Street posthaste.

The flat was in a state that Molly had never witnessed before. Its normal level of tidiness could usually be described as something like a 'chaotic harmony'. Today, it was literally in a shambles. Amidst the mess, stood Mary Watson bouncing her fretful nearly two month old daughter in her arms while Mrs. Hudson was trying to clean up.

There was little that Mary could say that would be heard over the constant shouts and yelling coming from the bedroom beyond the kitchen. Instead, Mary smiled gratefully at Molly's entrance and pointed towards the other room. Molly waved to both women and noticed their not so subtle expressions at seeing the man following behind her

"MOLLY HOOOOOPER!"

Molly took a deep breath and stepped into the room. There was precious little that surprised her after this many years of knowing Sherlock Holmes and of dealings. Living with him for the short time after his fall had not been easy or dull. But, walking into that bedroom to see John and Greg trying to wrangle a half-naked, wildly flailing Sherlock into staying on his stomach was definitely unexpected.

With a quick glance at his lily white arse, Molly surmised that he had somehow been injured during the day. There was a large bandage covering his right cheek and from the looks of it, he'd also been given the wrong medication.

"Okay," Molly shouted over the noise. "Who gave him Demerol?"

Three pairs of eyes turned to the woman at the door. The relief on John and Greg's faces was easy to see, but in their surprise the hold on their patient had loosened and he was soon out of bed.

"I didn't know!" John huffed. "The git never told me that he was allergic to it."

"Don't look at me," Greg shrugged. "I just shot him. Through and through. And, it was truly an accident although I won't lie that the thought hasn't crossed my mind."

Sherlock wobbled excitedly towards the pathologist; his shirt luckily providing him some modesty.

"Where 'ave you been, Molly Hooper?" He asked sounding quite cross as he placed his hands on her shoulders. "The game is… up. Down. Wait… dass not riiight."

"Let's get you to bed, shall we?" Molly tried to guide him back to the bed with John's help.

"No!" Sherlock skipped out of their reach and hid behind Molly. "No, no, no! Iz not _your_ bed, Molly. Doan like it."

"I thought you said you were just friends!" Tom suddenly interrupted from where he stood in the doorway.

"We were!" Molly turned and grabbed Sherlock's arm. She could feel his muscles tense from beneath the silky material of his black shirt. "I mean... we are."

Sherlock careened unsteadily towards Tom, squinting and leveling what was supposed to be a glare at the man.

"Watter you doin 'ere?" he scowled and poked his finger into thin air as he missed Tom's chest altogether. "Meat...erm...cleaver. Butter 'ife. Choppin'…"

"Dagger." Molly supplied and successfully steered him towards the bed. "Come on,"

"Yes!" The grin he threw at Tom grew wide and toothy as he wrapped his arms securely around the woman. "MY pass-ogo-liss! An you canna 'ave er back..."

"Lie down, Sherlock." John sighed and pushed him onto his front towards the bed. "You can't sit on your wound."

"Oh!" Molly squealed as Sherlock dragged her onto the bed hovering over her. She tugged the hem of her dress back down below her knees.

"Exactly what was the nature of your relationship?" Tom pushed John aside, but Greg kept him back.

"Not really the time, mate." The Inspector chimed in.

"Tom," Molly tried to get up. "Can we talk about this later? Thanks for lunch, but-"

"Lunch?" He threw his arms in the air. "It's St. Valentine's Day. I thought we could start over. Molly?"

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock frowned. "Get out!"

Although the noise level had died down in comparison, there were still too many people talking at the same time. The headache that had been brewing since Molly ended her shift was now boiling over.

"Hoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson strode into the ever-crowded room. "All sorted then?"

"Molly, Molly…" Sherlock blinked repeatedly in confusion as he kneeled in front of her. "Ife been shot, Molly."

She nodded sympathetically at the man who was trying to get her attention.

"I know," she replied. "You've been given the wrong painkiller. You need to rest."

"Ife been shot before," he nodded tiredly. "Did I shhow you? I shhhow you."

"John," Mary walked in with the baby. "It's almost Moira's naptime. Whoa—"

"Um, Mary." John coughed.

"Is there a reason why you are all just standing here watching Sherlock undress in front of Molly?" She giggled and looked at pointedly at her. "You okay, there?"

Molly managed to still Sherlock's hands fumbling at his buttons and finally got him to lie down although he was nearly on top of her.

"Yup," Molly blushed. "He's slowing down. Once he sleeps it off, he'll be fine."

Sherlock turned and growled at the crowd once again, "WHY ARE YOU ALL STILL 'ERE? TWO OUTTA DA SIX OF YOU 'AVE SHOT ME RECENTLY. GET OUT!"

After a few moments, the group decided that it was best to let the injured man rest as he seemed to be calming down with the presence of Molly there. Greg, John and Tom had to return to work since it was a Friday and lunch was long over. Mary had to take their baby home for a nap.

Molly sighed as Sherlock settled down next to her and closed his eyes; the soft blanket covering him from the waist down. She had apologized to Tom and said she would speak with him later. She had not once thought about the fact that today was a romantic occasion.

-x-

Several hours later…

Late afternoon shadows cast themselves about the quiet bedroom as Molly slowly awoke. For a moment, she couldn't remember where she was, but being warm and comfortable was more important than her exact latitude and longitude. A distant thought came to her- this was a familiar feeling. One that she hadn't experienced in…

Molly gingerly tried to extract herself from the warm body that was circled around hers. Sometimes she still felt so small around him although it was usually only in stature. Sherlock had spent half the day acting not at all like himself and she figured that he'd want to have as little reminder of this hiccup as possible. If he was lucky, he wouldn't remember a thing.

"Stop moving," he grumbled.

"Um," Molly froze for a moment. "Sorry, I must've fallen asleep. I worked the graveyard last night."

"Hmm..." Sherlock nuzzled closer to her neck so that she could feel his breath as he exhaled.

"So," she started trying to sound as casual as possible. "Greg accidentally shot you and he couldn't stop apologizing. And, John gave you the wrong painkiller and they called me and so I came. And…"

"You're rambling, Molly." He mumbled. "Though it's not an eidetic memory, I do have excellent recall."

"You remember everything then?" she grimaced.

Sherlock moved backwards slightly so he could look at her. "Nearly. Somewhat unfortunately, I'd say. But, I can remember lots of things like the fact that I don't react well to certain opioids like meperidine."

"Then, why would you—" Molly's jaw dropped.

"Because, as I recall," he sighed. "You've been avoiding me since before Christmas."

Molly pushed him away forcefully and sat up.

"So, you took the pills anyway?" She shouted. "Knowing that you'd have a reaction to them? Oh my god!"

"Because I knew you'd come!" Sherlock winced as he sat up, but shifted to avoid putting too much pressure on his wounds.

"That's so…" Molly seethed. "Dangerous and irresponsible. And, insane!"

"I also seem to recall you _not_ having a fiancé," he continued. "However, I suppose I can't be right about everything."

"I don't!"

"Seems like a fine day to rekindle your romance!" Sherlock snarled. "The most romantic day of the year."

"I didn't know it was Valentine's Day!" Molly shook her head. "I haven't seen him in months! You know what? I'm not going to do this. Whatever _this_ is."

"I, of all people, knew it was St. Valentine's Day." Sherlock followed Molly through the flat as she collected her cherry jumper, her coat and her purse. "How could you, a textbook romantic with a yearly tradition of watching all of those insipid, idealistic Jane Austen movies, not know what day it was?"

Molly stopped suddenly and looked at the man before her in the wrinkled silk shirt and nothing else.

"Because," she smiled sadly. "Besides the fact that had three post-mortems to do last night, I don't have much of a reason to remember a day that is set aside for hopeless romantics."

"But," Sherlock held out his hands. "Between the two of us, you'd choose to see him?"

"He doesn't scare me like you do," Molly said quietly.

The tightness he'd been feeling in his chest did something terrible. Sherlock didn't know what it was, but it was worse than being shot. It was more painful than anything he'd ever felt before.

"I have never wanted you to be afraid of me," he said horrified.

"No, Sherlock!" She shook her head profusely. "I'm not scared _of _you. I'm scared of the things you do. Not everything but some things. Like the drugs and now today."

"Then," he nodded and backed away. "For that, Molly Hooper. I am truly sorry."

Molly could see what Sherlock was about to do a split second before it happened. She shouted out, but it was too late. It was an action that Sherlock must've done a thousand times- out of frustration, anger, or boredom. Today, out of sadness, he flung himself into his chair. And screamed.

"Sherlock!" she reached out to catch him as he immediately jumped out of his chair and fell to the ground.

The Demerol had definitely run its course and from the blood that was seeping through his bandages, he had probably torn apart his stitches.

Molly rushed to the kitchen table and popped open the pill bottle left by John with a note letting her know that this was Sherlock's new pain medication. She retrieved two pills and a tall glass of water.

After he had taken the meds, Molly set about cleaning up the gunshot wounds and replaced some of the torn sutures. Then, it was back to bed for her patient.

Molly blushed and looked away as Sherlock peeled off his shirt and slipped beneath the covers. He lay on his front and looked up at her.

"Molly," he began slowly. "If I promise to be more careful- well, to be not so careless… would you consider not seeing Tom again?"

"Tom?" She laughed and slowly brushed the dark curls away from his forehead. "Don't you understand, Sherlock? That's another reason why you scare me. There was never any contest. I couldn't fool myself anymore."

The smile that slowly worked its way onto his face was a rarity. The moments when he was truly happy were reserved only for those that really mattered.

"I will make mistakes," he told her firmly. "But, I will try. I will be better."

"Okay." Molly wasn't quite sure what to say. Whatever it was, this was the strangest and best Valentine's Day she'd ever experienced. After all, she'd just spent the better part of her day with a nearly naked man that, for better or worse, she utterly adored.

"You must be tired," Sherlock moved over and patted the spot next to him.

"Uh, maybe I should come back tomorrow." She giggled.

"Hmm," Sherlock shook his head and gently drew her towards him. "You promised, Molly."

"What?" She chuckled as she allowed herself to be pulled to recline next to him on top of his crumpled Egyptian cotton sheets. "What did I promise?"

Sherlock rose up on his elbows and looked down at the woman that meant more to him that he'd ever realized. He would never again squander a moment that he had to share with her.

"You said," He traced a finger down her jawline and smiled. "That if ever I needed anything..."

"Sherlock—" Her eyes welled up as the warmth of his lips pressed against hers.

"I need you, Molly Hooper."

-x-

A/N2: In case you were wondering about the title of the fic (I've had a few questions), "million dollar shot/ wound"definition: A wound received in war, that is not serious enough to kill or permanently disable, but is serious enough to warrant being taken out of combat for an extended period of time (urban dictionary). So, yup. Lestrade accidentally shot Shezza in the butt ;P


End file.
